pareidolia
“We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It’s our own concept—our own selves—that we love.”
I've decided that my writing is impressionist literature.
Lacking formal intention, I'm sick of resisting the wave that moves up and outwards whenever I place pen to page or fingers to keyboard. I begin with an idea in mind, perhaps a dream or provocative musing, though what I'm left with is never what I intended. What comes up and out is a collection of events and conversations I've amassed being in this body.
Impressionist Literature is non-linear, characterized by its ambiguity, emotional landscape, subjectivity, lack of chronology, and attention to specific details.
Like yoga, the reader does the work to connect to the discourse. The poses are the teacher of the practice, not the instructor. A guru is an illusion, a projection of lack. A wise teacher guides practitioners through the experience. It's not personal. None of this is.
I endeavour for my stories to incite something in the reader. Exact names, dates, names; such details do not matter. I want those who enter my work to feel something when they meet the characters and voyage through the landscapes I've placed on the page.
Impressionistic writing is a style that relies on abstract associations, the subjective point of view of the characters, and the rendering of sensory details to relay the "impression" of a person or event. The impressionistic writing style leaves the reader to determine the author's ultimate meaning. — source.
The quality of sensation that surfaces when I write or when treated to a particular yoga class or story is what I seek. It is the most desired sensation: to meet that place within myself that pokes its head out spontaneously to reveal a palmful of stones.
Look!—the thing says—Look, here; it's all you have. It's all you need. Take the one you want and put the rest away. They will be here when you are ready. These things will wait. Not all things wait. These things will.
Now the things appear different. Some are jagged. Some are smooth. Some are dry. Some are wet. Some glitter like crystals. Some darken like earth.
It doesn't matter what they look like! Don't get hung up on that detail. I digress.
I use stones as my things to keep myself grounded. Your things may be a different object. You could choose feathers. There are lots of features to imagine. The point is to imagine a tangible object as the thing. I do this because it's easy to misplace things. There are lots of things to keep track of.
The things arrive quietly- there is never any sound. I am usually lost in subconscious space when I feel the things land like a hard rap on the door of my heart.
I'm here! The things say, ready or not—here I am!
Initially, I didn't hear the things. There was too much busyness in my mind. Then, I pushed the things away. I don't like being unprepared for things, especially these Things. It took me some time to hear the things, see the things, and receive the things. Seeing and receiving are wholly unique.
Five things that showed up for me today during yoga class:
The ending to a short story I'm working on: About The Bats.
An invitation to a heart-centred workshop in May—I'd been trying to decide if I wanted to go. The answer is YES!
The approach to a fickle friend, what to say to stand in my own while holding compassion.
Love, all-encompassing love towards my dear beloved friends.
Where to hold my attention in my professional work.
I've been muttering to myself and others around in circles regarding that list for days, perhaps weeks! Getting nowhere. Spinning and spinning like a bike wheel without a brake.
I know better. I know to sit back and patiently wait for the things to surface on their own. The answers are always there, waiting to drop. I don't need to catch them all of the time. Today in yoga class, I did. Each stone landed lightly, and I breathed deeper and felt mySelf smile and hold the things tight.
The heart's electromagnetic field is 100 times greater than the brain. Our heart energy radiates multilaterally and extends up to three feet away. What I feel on the inside pours outwards past the four corners of my yoga mat. With each beat, my room gets a little brighter.
We reform the spaces we embody through the electric current of our heart energy.
Pareidolia: the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern.
The heart is random. There is no recipe for understanding. All I can do is create a container for the Mystical Messages of the Thing to arrive. I do yoga. I write. I collect stones. I give the stones away. There is no sense in keeping the things once you've acknowledged them.
The stones are like love, an offering we take in and release.
Take it all in, and release.
Photo source.
